


Clockwork Spectacle

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, M/M, Nargothrond, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, ie. an endeavor to fuck the Nargothrond clusterfuck even further, problematic coping strategies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5872930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“That’s it,” Celegorm murmured ... “We can do without them.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork Spectacle

**Author's Note:**

> imindhowwelayinjune on Tumblr first suggested Celebrimbor/Celegorm as a ship over the summer, and it has been stewing in my mind ever since. Unsurprisingly, credit for the title belongs to W. H. Auden and his poem _A Walk after Dark_.

Celebrimbor stood rooted to the spot between wall and balustrade. Below sprawled a gallery lined with carven pillars, echoing and empty throughout the changing seasons; but tonight it swelled with a conversation he was not meant to hear. He had intended to walk past, continue on his way to the forges, yet his legs had grown rigid at the familiarity of the voices; and now that stiffness transmuted into an ache, thunder in his heart, as a moan quivered off the walls. 

“Have you no restraint?” Celebrimbor could almost _see_ his father, lips pressed to Finrod’s ear, hand twisting beneath his robes; down to the finest details he could picture Finrod's bright hair tumbled over his shoulders, down his back, could picture his sea-glimmer eyes closing with a flutter of golden eyelashes. 

Finrod hummed in consideration. “Ah, but cousin, _you_ are the one taking _me_ here, where anyone could see.” 

Celebrimbor's lips thinned. He clasped his hands before him in a bloodless grip, fingers plucking at his rings, at one of them in particular: a delicate band of gold engraved with tiny leaves, crowned with a blue-green gleam of chrysocolla.

“You can step closer. They never notice anything when they’re fucking.” Neither had Celebrimbor: he started violently and jerked around, finding himself staring wide-eyed at his uncle. 

Celegorm had sidled up to the balustrade and was now leaning his forearms against it. For a moment Celebrimbor's heart shed its pain, swelling in gratitude that it had been his uncle who had happened upon him: Celegorm of all people would wave the matter away with a bark of a laugh, a jesting side-glance. Yet as Celegorm turned his head to address him, Celebrimbor could discern a twist to his lip, a too-bright gloss to his eyes that reminded him of deadly knives, the spilled entrails of a beast. “Well, go on,'' Celegorm said with a lurch of the head toward the gallery. ''You want to watch, don’t you?” 

Celebrimbor twirled the ring so vigorously that it nearly slipped off his finger. ''I should be on my way,'' he offered in lieu of an answer. ''There is work to be done in the forges.'' 

A crooked smirk slanted over Celegorm's lips, a sharpened flash of teeth in the shadows. “You’ve been thinking about him, haven’t you?” 

A blush burst over Celebrimbor’s cheeks and he opened his mouth to deny it; yet the syllables were clumsy on his tongue, even though they had clamored through his mind times uncounted in the deeps of night, when sleep had skirted past his chamber. 

But Celegorm was shaking his head, words striking their mark as daggers slicing into their target: "You can lie to me if you want, Tyelpë, but it is no good lying to yourself.” No hint of accusation stabbed through his voice; only a grim whiff of amusement, and beneath, so sincere that Celebrimbor almost didn't recognize it as emanating from his uncle, something that sounded like commiseration. 

With punctilious care Celebrimbor had layered lie upon lie, as the metal sheets of a suit of armor; he had almost come to believe his own words. Yet within minutes they had all been knocked aside, as fine glass toppling off a shelf with the bump of a hand. It did not matter whether he stayed or left, not now. Oddly giddy, moving as one in a dream, Celebrimbor crept to Celegorm's side. He lowered his eyes to the robes bunched up around Finrod's waist, to the grinding cadence of his father's hips—his hands clutched at the railing white-knuckled and desperate. 

"Are you well, kid?" Celegorm asked, sliding a warm hand to his back. 

Finrod's mewl scraped against the wall as Curufin's hips snapped into a harsher rhythm; Celebrimbor watched the skin of Finrod's thigh bristle and redden with each pass of Curufin's nails. He had no right to care; there ought to be no meaning to the mangled weight of his breastbone in his chest. 

The warmth tingled down to the base of his spine, blooming back up to his shoulder blades as Celegorm rubbed his back. "Tyelpë?" 

“Does my father know?” In a remote part of his mind, detached from the emotion boiling in his gut, Celebrimbor was pleased that his voice did not waver. 

“Of course.” 

Celebrimbor groaned, stooping to match his uncle's posture, shoving his head into his hands. Celegorm snorted, sliding a glance to the two figures in the gallery below; the hand stayed. 

“Worry not, he is too entangled in Findaráto to dwell overmuch on it.” And then, in a quiet voice, vicious around the edges, he appended: “By the bloody Valar, what is it about Findaráto that has the lot of you drooling?” 

To that Celebrimbor had no answer. A cry stippled the air in brightness, ringing in a percussion of pleasure round the gallery. A dull thud, and Celebrimbor saw Finrod resting his forehead against the wall, the Nauglamír netting the arch of his neck in a jeweled glister. Curufin leaned forward, tearing with teeth at a gulping artery, and Finrod craned his neck to crush his lips to Curufin’s. 

A growl grated in Celegorm’s throat. “Stay if you will,” he said as he straightened, letting his hand drop back to his side. “I’ve seen enough.” 

Celebrimbor moved to follow him. “No, I—” He could not watch. He craved to see more, yes, more of Finrod senseless and beautiful at the crux of delight, cheeks flushed and lips dragging open; but not like this, not when pain pulsed erratic and crushing alongside his heartbeat. 

Celegorm turned on his heel. The dimness cast his features in angles and steel, but his expression mellowed when he looked at Celebrimbor. "Come on, kid," he coaxed, and Celebrimbor allowed his uncle to steer him away with hand settled once more at the small of his back. 

X X 

It was late enough to be early when Celebrimbor rapped against the door to his father’s quarters; but it was Celegorm's voice that gruffly bade him enter. Flames flashed fitfully in the hearth, their glow all but faded now that far above the river Narog foamed crimson with the first glimmer of dawn. Celebrimbor peered round the chamber, but found it empty save for his uncle, draped over an armchair by the dying fire. 

“Will Atar be back anytime soon?” 

Celegorm clucked his tongue. When he spoke, a faint sneer edged his words: “I wouldn’t count on it. He left with the intention of staining Findaráto’s sheets. Better come looking for him in the morning, Tyelpë. I'll tell him you passed by.'' 

Celebrimbor's sigh hung in the air even as he pursed his lips, blinking the stinging weariness out of his eyes. Only then Celegorm truly looked at him. 

“You’ve been up all night?” 

“Yes,'' Celebrimbor mumbled, rubbing a hand over his brow, ''in the forge. I’m working on a carcanet for the princess Finduilas. In truth that is why I came here. My stores of aquamarine are depleted, and I wanted to ask Atar if I could borrow from his.” 

Vexation seemed to have seeped from Celegorm, leaving only concern in its wake, concern and a gentleness Celebrimbor remembered only faintly, from a land beyond howling seas; few were the uses of gentleness on these ravaged shores. “You’re working yourself into exhaustion, Tyelpë.'' 

“I am not,” Celebrimbor protested, though discomfort wriggled within him at the truth of Celegorm’s words. “I merely wished to finish—” 

“Come.” Celegorm uncoiled himself from his perch on the armchair and stopped in front of his nephew, reaching around to unknot the leather apron Celebrimbor was still wearing. “You can spend whatever is left of the night here. Your father evidently will not.” The hand Celegorm pressed so easily to the small of his back yanked the exchange on the balcony into sharp awareness; the warmth of the touch, the solidity of it, was as comforting as it had been back then. 

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor slurred through a yawn, remaining pliant as Celegorm seated him on the edge of the bed. He stooped to pluck off his boots; but the thought that flashed through his mind left him pausing with roiling gut and soured mouth: how many times had Curufin bedded Finrod on the selfsame mattress? 

“Normally he doesn't.'' 

“What?'' Celebrimbor blinked up at his uncle; belated was the realization that weariness had left the boundaries of his mind blurred and inviting, but Celegorm was unfazed. 

“They don’t fuck here. Of course, there have been times, but few and far between.” 

Celebrimbor struggled to swallow down the blistering, bitter lump in his throat, to convince himself that it had nothing to do with jealousy. With a huff he jerked the untied apron over his head, sending it crumpling to the floor; his tunic followed suit, and Celegorm watched as it was discarded in a heap. 

''Why him?'' Celebrimbor demanded, when he meant _why not me?_

Celegorm’s laughter was less mirth than bark. “Believe me, Tyelpë, if I knew I would tell you. As it is, what Findaráto may think or desire is no great concern of mine.'' 

Before Celebrimbor could propel himself further up the bed to skulk beneath the covers and go back to pretending, Celegorm planted a hand upon his shoulder. His other hand strayed into his hair, gently tugging it out of the plain leather band securing it in a ponytail. 

“You seldom braid your hair these days.” 

“Ammë used to, and then Atar.'' No explanation threaded through Celebrimbor's words. Celegorm understood all the same. 

''But now he does not.'' 

“He’s busy,” Celebrimbor said, automatically, with a shrug. 

Celegorm snorted, a strange sound, quiet, lacking in amusement; but he did not reply. He pulled his fingers through Celebrimbor’s hair, letting his nails scratch lightly against his scalp. 

“I—'' Celebrimbor could not dismantle the soft glow within him into words. The intimacy of the touch hushed the clamor of his thoughts—thoughts about Finrod, of course, always, only Finrod—the same clamor he had fruitlessly sought to drown out in the clang of his hammer. 

Celebrimbor did not know who started it. It might have been him, parting his lips, leaning in close to his uncle; or it might have been Celegorm who, he felt reasonably certain, was the one to deepen the kiss. Lips met, and tongues brushed, and somewhere in the press of bodies his hands must have come up to cling to Celegorm’s tunic—they were definitely there now, deftly undoing the lacings strung across his sternum. Celegorm withdrew, carelessly fighting out of his tunic, and his lips as they split into a roguish grin glistened. 

He paused then, steadily regarding Celebrimbor, one warm hand lightly poised against his chest. Slowly his smile faded, and only the rush of Celebrimbor's heart against his palm marked the sweep of seconds. At last Celebrimbor nodded, once. He wondered what his father would think as Celegorm pushed him back into the covers, slinking on top of him, whirling him into another kiss. 

The thought of his father’s fine features waxen with surprise set recklessness diving through him, and so potent it was, so heady, that he smiled against the curve of Celegorm's mouth. (Or maybe even now his father was listening at the door. Any moment he would stride in, and with a sneer struck over his lips, he would declare that he had known.) But Curufin was not stationed outside, and Celegorm’s hands were rough and warm against his skin, yanking his breeches ever lower. 

Celebrimbor arched into the touch as Celegorm's fingers trailed up his stiffening length, as his mouth dragged over his abdomen, peppering kisses over his hipbones. He blushed darkly, a gasp plastered to his lips, and from between his parted thighs Celegorm raised his head to grin at him; he curled his hands over Celebrimbor's thighs, nudging them further apart, and with a bounce of bright hair he dipped his head, he lapped at the tip of his cock. Celebrimbor let his head thud back into the pillows, fingers blindly reaching for a handful of fair curls. 

“That’s it,” Celegorm murmured, breath bursting in hot little puffs over his length until Celebrimbor wriggled his hips. “We can do without them.” 

“Yes,” Celebrimbor agreed, and— 

“Yes,” once again, as Celegorm sucked him into his mouth, as he took him down further with but a hint of teeth. A moan throbbed in Celebrimbor's chest, and his grip on his uncle's wild hair tightened fractionally; through half-lidded eyes he could almost pretend that the color was warmer, gleaming like liquid gold, that the eyes flicking up toward him were the deep blue-green of the fretful sea. 

But just as Celebrimbor began to rock up into Celegorm's mouth, his uncle tossed his head away. He quietened Celebrimbor's pants for breath with a quick kiss, rummaging in the bedside drawer for the vial of oil Curufin always made sure to refill. Between thumb and forefinger he clasped it, and the firelight burnished the oil to a gleam as he turned it this way and that. 

“Have you done this before?” 

Celebrimbor looked vaguely offended. 

Celegorm let loose a chuckle that put Celebrimbor in mind of his uncle reaching forward and ruffling his hair; but he blinked and Celegorm was grinning, a teasing beat to his voice: “I was merely wondering if I should be gentle with you.” 

And yet he was meticulous in drizzling oil over his fingers; he prodded past the tight ring of muscle with care, allowing Celebrimbor abundant time to adjust before adding a second finger, curling them both just so. 

“Ah – are you gentle with – with him?” 

“With Curvo?” Celegorm twisted his fingers knuckle-deep inside Celebrimbor, holding them wider apart. “No. But I would have thought your father to be an unsuitable topic of conversation—or does it get you off?” 

“What? No. No, Valar forefend, Uncle—” But the rest of his thoughts slipped and slid against each other, jumbled together, as Celegorm deepened the angle; whatever else he may have intended to say foundered beneath a cry of delight. 

Celegorm shrugged. “It wouldn’t be unheard-of.” 

“Definitely not,” repeated Celebrimbor once he had drawn sufficient air into his lungs. 

“Hmm. Turn around.” Celegorm worked his fingers out of him, and with a strange flutter of excitement, a swirl of arousal looping low in his belly, Celebrimbor obeyed: he rolled onto his stomach, shifting his legs apart. Celegorm liberally splashed oil over his length, luxuriating in canting his hips into his own fist. His other hand was splayed over Celebrimbor's back, thumb stroking over the very base of his spine. 

“You’re not like your father,” Celegorm mused, leaning his weight on his arms, slotting his hips to Celebrimbor's buttocks. He rocked forward, breaching him, then held himself motionless until Celebrimbor relaxed around him. 

“Didn’t you say he isn’t a suitable topic of conversation?” Celebrimbor forced out, gritting his teeth anew as Celegorm sank in deeper. 

“You didn’t seem to mind.” 

Celebrimbor grunted into the covers, pressing the heat prickling over his cheeks into the silk, hands seizing it in fistfuls and clinging. “Different how?” 

“You shouldn’t hear this from me.” 

“Uncle – ah – please, I want to—” Celegorm had sloped into a rhythm, not as rough as it would have been had Curufin been the one writhing beneath him; but it was enough to jar into Celebrimbor with every thrust, to send pleasure clenching through him. 

Celegorm shook his head, much as a dog would to get rid of excess water. “Not now,” he panted, burrowing into Celebrimbor all the harder, feeling himself begin to tip over. He needed no more than mere moments, spilling into Celebrimbor with a curse snarled from his lips; but his nails did not rake stinging and bloody down Celebrimbor's side, his palm did not bruise his trachea. 

There was silence afterward: the kind of silence Celegorm had always felt fluttering in after the Hunt; it was dispersed only by his own breaths gusting in his ears and the minute shifts of Celebrimbor's hips rustling the bedcovers. 

“Allow me,” Celegorm smiled, easing out of Celebrimbor and skimming a hand down to the base of his cock; Celebrimbor gladly raised his hips to oblige. Celegorm's fingers around his length were firm, still slick with the remnants of the oil, thumb scooping over his very tip; and whether or not Celebrimbor pictured another's hand as he bucked his hips, silently spilling over his uncle's fingers, Celegorm had no impetus to ascertain. 

After deep, deep breaths and the torpid rearrangement of limbs, Celegorm drew Celebrimbor against him, and Celebrimbor went willingly: unlike Curufin, he made no attempt to wriggle away, simply content to curl into his uncle, lax with weariness and the last glowing strands of bliss. 

Lethargy was eddying through Celegorm's muscles too, and lazily he began anew to scratch his fingers through Celebrimbor's hair. “I could braid it for you, you know.'' 

Seconds wheeled past, warm bodies fitted together and the last feeble flames in the hearth collapsing into themselves. A mumble unpeeled from Celebrimbor's lips to crush into his uncle's chest, and to Celegorm it sounded like assent.  



End file.
